


A Dish Best Served

by katmarajade



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: femmefest, Daddy Issues, F/F, Infidelity, POV Second Person, Past Infidelity, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-23
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-26 06:27:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1678136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katmarajade/pseuds/katmarajade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i> Mum’s forgiven your bastard of a father for having an affair with that </i>floozy<i> and humiliating her, humiliating all of you. You’ve not forgotten though. And it’s time he learned how it feels.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dish Best Served

**Author's Note:**

  * For [luvscharlie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luvscharlie/gifts).



> Written for Femmefest 2014 on LJ for the wonderful Luvscharlie. She requested something "wrong and revengey" for this pairing and I hope I've accomplished that. Heed the warnings-- this Rose is (delightfully) dark and twisted.

You’ve been waiting for this chance almost your entire life, so when the opportunity appears, your bags are already packed and you’re kissing your mum goodbye and waving at your cousins as you get into line for your Portkey. Fifteen years you’ve spent in France. Fifteen years since your mother, the strongest, bravest woman on earth, stood her ground, defied centuries of legal precedent, and left her cheating scumbag of a husband, taking both of her children with her. You barely remember your life in England, and images of your father are fuzzy at best, but you’ve heard enough. Mum, Auntie Fleur, Uncle Bill, Auntie Ginny—they all talk when they don’t think you can hear. But you always hear.

Mum’s getting old, perhaps, and she’s getting soft. She’s forgiven him. Forgiven your bastard of a father for having an affair with that _floozy_ and humiliating her, humiliating all of you. 

You’ve not forgotten though. And it’s time he learned how it feels. 

The idea came from something your cousin Dominique told you, overheard in a conversation between some of the Aunties back in England. They’d been drinking a bit and someone had mentioned that “Auntie” Lavender (they call her your Auntie, but she’s not. She’s not your stepmother either; he never married her) used to _experiment_ with her best friend, Parvati, back in their school days. You’ve done your research and have discovered her weaknesses: ginger hair, nubile girls (well, that bit was twenty-some years ago, but you figure some things don’t change), and the thrill of a secret liaison. 

_Once a cheater, always a cheater._ That’s what your mum says and you’re counting on it. 

It’s easier to meet her than you thought. Your studies, as usual, are easy and take little effort, so you’ve plenty of time to try for a job at the local antique shop, where Ms Brown is conveniently looking for help with inventorying. You wear a slight Glamour—just enough to shift your nose and mouth. You assume mum sends your father photos every now and then. She always was too forgiving.

Lavender Brown is different than you imagined. You assumed that the skanky siren who stole your father away from his wife and children would be…prettier. She’s average. Not terribly tall, a bit too plump, and a few greys blended in with her dirty blonde hair. She looks old and rather frumpy. Her lipstick wanders and tends to smear, and her robes are a little too tight, like she’s pretending that last stone never happened. 

This is going to be easier than you thought, but you’ve waited years for this and you’re in no rush. There’s no white-hot anger anymore, just a dull, cold certainty that they deserve this. 

You’re charming, full of shy smiles, awed expressions, careful compliments, and false flattery. She laps it up like a dog, strutting around and delighting in your sweet words and heavy-handed praise.

Sooner than expected, you’re able to begin the second stage of quiet, longing looks and adoring smiles. You let your skirt hems up an inch or two and, every so often, allow a button to pop open accidentally, letting the sight of your perfect, perky pair linger in her mind. 

She’s not too bright, this one, and she’s pathetically gullible. There are times you want to groan at how easily she lets you play her, how easily she believes. It takes only three months from the day you first spotted her to make your final move. 

A shy invite to a girls’ night, as you’re so lonely here in London all by yourself. A wide-eyed look of innocence and a tight blouse, and she’s almost drooling. Her acceptance gives you a rush of triumph, but also grates at your soul. She’s so sure she’s in charge, that she’s helping a lost little lamb. It’s so obvious that she feels _needed_ and _good_ , and you struggle to hide your contempt. 

It’s textbook, really. A bottle of wine, some bashful innuendo, a few awed glances, and she’s ripe for the picking. 

You let her take the lead at first with slow, languid kisses. Lavender’s tongue is soft and warm in your mouth, tasting, dipping, and diving deep. You whimper when she brushes a hand over your breast, the touch searing through you despite your bra and blouse still separating you. When she undoes your blouse, one slow button at a time, you’re already arching beneath her, begging for more. The lines blur and you’re not quite sure whether it’s the thrill of your own success or Lavender herself turning you on now. Perhaps it’s a bit of both. 

There’s a click and you feel the front clasp of your sexiest pink bra falling apart, baring your breasts. Without bothering to remove your clothing, just shoving blouse and bra to the side, she begins biting at your nipples, soft nips with just a hint of tongue. You let out a moan when you feel her hand trail up your leg, under your skirt, and begin toying with the thin strip of fabric separating her fingers from your heat. 

Lavender is better than you ever imagined and you come with her fingers still brushing the outside of your pink knickers and her mauve lipstick smeared on your breasts. You let out a breathless little laugh and manoeuvre out from under her, then teasingly back her towards the bedroom, a slow, awkward, giggling dance. You pull off her clothes, leaving them trailing from the sofa to the bed like breadcrumbs. 

A little push and she’s splayed out on your bed, naked and grinning. Your eyes gleam with predatory desire and you want to throw your head back and laugh at the trusting, wanting look in her eyes. You follow through, tasting, touching, teasing. Soon she’s writhing beneath you, her large breasts bouncing as she ruts against your mouth, and her ample thighs clenching around your head when she comes. You bite softly at her leg and she relaxes, letting you wriggle out. You both smirk. All it takes is biting your lip and a giving her a hint of wide eyes, and she’s up and pushing you into the duvet. A rasping sound of pleasure escapes from your mouth and you give into the sensations, letting her pull you back towards the brink.

Only minutes later you hear the faint pop of someone Apparating into your flat. You groan even louder to cover it, and your heart flutters in anticipation and you let the slight Glamour you’ve been wearing drop. When your father enters your bedroom, the timing is better than you could ever have dreamed. You’re sprawled on the bed, one leg draped around Lavender, who is hovering above you, slightly off to one side, laving at your perfect breasts and four fingers deep inside you. You don’t even have to fake your orgasm, because the sight of your father’s horrified face and Lavender’s fingers stiffening inside your wet walls pushes you over into the most satisfying climax of your life. 

You just lie there, breathing hard, as Lavender leaps off the bed, stumbling and grasping for something to cover herself. The expression on her face when she realises who you are is glorious, and you want to laugh out loud at the perfection of it. You lean back into the pillows, not caring about your nakedness. The shame, the disgust, the horror on their faces is even better than you imagined. You know you’ve succeeded before they do. Daddy dearest can’t even look at you, can’t look at _her_. If everything you’ve heard about him is true, the morality and nobility and other such pitiful rot, this will destroy them. 

From the look on his face, you know you were right. He’ll never again be able to look at his precious tart without seeing her fucking his baby girl. And he’ll never get past that.

They say revenge is a dish best served cold. Personally, you prefer it reheated until it burns.


End file.
